It Beats, Softly
by Kiyoshi Dot
Summary: Damon thinks how foolish this is, to allow oneself to be so vulnerable, surely its only admirable quality is how pathetic it makes one out to be. But Elena does not feel like a risk. Elena feels like quiet and comfort unfurling warmly in his stomach.


Her voice is soft when she speaks.

"How are you?" Elena asks.

Damon looks up, regards her for a moment before returning his gaze back to the fire.

"Fine," he says.

Elena's lips purse slightly.

"No, you're not." She sits down beside him on the couch with a resigned sigh, takes the pillow that rests between them and sets it on her lap.

His expression hardens slightly. "I said I'm fine, Elena."

"You were tortured for _three hours_, Damon. You're allowed to admit it, if you're still hurting." Her hair shifts against her face as she eyes him. "It doesn't make you weak or any less, _you_, just … adds another layer of dimension. It's _alright_ to feel upset or bothered by what happened to you."

Damon wants to say something in retort to this, some fancy words of banter or a snarky comment that so easily slides from his tongue. But it hurts to breathe, even though the wounds inflicted upon his chest hours earlier have faded, skin tissue and cells sewing together with supernatural urgency and ease. But there is a pain there still, throbbing in the center of his chest, and it squirms outwards and clenches at the fibers of his muscles when he tries to speak. So he doesn't, instead touches his tongue to the back of his teeth and waits for it to subside.

"I should have been there."

He frowns at this, turns to look at her because this comment does not make any sense to him.

"Don't be stupid."

Elena does not respond. Her eyelashes are very long; he can see their delicate ends peeking out from behind her hair.

"They would have killed you."

Her hair has fallen across her face, but he can catch a glimpse of her mouth, teeth biting into the supple flesh of her bottom lip as she shakes her head and disturbs the curtain that hides her.

"If they were interested in killing anyone they would have done so already." She turns her face to him. "What they wanted was to inflict _pain_, Damon; they just wanted to torture you for their own pleasure."

He cannot push the image from his mind. "I can heal from wooden stakes, Elena, that kind of thing would have killed you."

She shakes her head. "Physical torture is the same for me as it is for you."

"Not if they pierce a vital organ."

Elena's reply is quiet, almost too quiet for Damon to hear, "The same can be said for you."

Damon sighs, the pain spreads deeper. "I don't know why you would want to be tortured, Elena."

Her reply is thoughtful, words forming slowly. "I don't … want to be _tortured_. It's just - I should have _been there_ with you. I should have gone through what you did."

He wants to call her stupid again. No one _wants_ to feel pain for his sake.

"Why?"

"I don't know. It just seems that I should share in what you feel. When you're happy or sad, or if you feel pain, I ought to feel it as well." She gives him a helpless sort of smile. "Don't ask me to explain it, ok?"

His eyelashes stir for a moment, a muscle pulls at the corner of his mouth. But he nods.

Elena sighs, her chest falling, nestles her shoulder-blades deeper into the cushions. Outside the branches from the old poplar tree scratch against the windowpane. It is cold tonight. Elena remembers that she forgot to bring her coat.

Somehow, she cannot bring herself to care.

She reaches for the glass of bourbon in Damon's hand and after a moment he hands it to her. Their fingers touch and Elena does not take the glass away at first, just allows their skin to linger together, side by side, a contact that pulses through every nerve ending in Damon's body. He does not breathe as he watches her, with her gaze lowered upon their joined hands. Finally, she allows her hand to fall away.

Her fingers curl around the circumference of the glass on her lap, knees pressing together, shoulders tucking forward slightly.

"I should have known something was wrong," she confesses. "When I called and you didn't answer, even though I tried _five times_ and you never answered. I should have known that something was wrong only I told myself that you were just ignoring me or were perhaps mad that I had gone out with Bonnie and Caroline and wasn't spending time with you." She closes her eyes. Painful to remember. "I guess it was just easier thinking that you were ok rather than the thought that something bad was happening to you."

It's difficult to swallow now, but Damon pushes it away and says, "Stop talking about this."

Elena brings the glass to her lips. It tastes like Damon, on the rim of the cup, infused with the sharp flavor of the alcohol. She does not know _how_ she knows this, other than the fact that she knows that his mouth has been against it, but she _knows_, somehow, Damon's taste, that it is _Damon_ against her skin as she opens her mouth and swallows. The back of her throat shudders, the alcohol blooming in a slow burn down her esophagus, radiating into her chest.

_Next time, I'll be there_, she thinks, acknowledging the pain.

She shifts on the cushions, closer to Damon, nestling herself against his shoulder as she rests the glass upon his thigh. His arm lifts, reluctantly at first, before settling upon her narrow shoulders, allowing her to rest her cheek against his chest.

"Your heart beats," she murmurs.

"It always beats," he replies, the response vibrating softly beneath her ear.

"It sounds heavier now, are you sure you're ok?"

He nods. His chin brushes across the top of her head as he does so, smooth strands of hair tickling at the underside of his chin. He frowns.

"Yes, I think so."

Elena is quiet. Damon's chest rises and falls easier now, his breathing settling into a gentle rhythm, not so labored anymore.

"I'll be with you next time." she says aloud.

Damon swallows. It is still hard to do so but it doesn't hurt anymore. This scares him, how warm his chest feels, how it does not burn with human mortal pain anymore. Her weight is a blanket that soothes away the tension in his muscles, each pulse of blood pushing into his heart, forcing him to _feel_.

"Even if you do not want me to, I'll be there."

Damon nods. It doesn't feel _necessary_ to speak but he needs to.

"Ok," he says hoarsely.

He opens his senses, hesitantly, reaching out in trepidation to allow those human emotions and sensations to seep through the walls that have risen high and confidently around his mind. It seems that he lives in a house of glass windows now. When had his protective barriers become so thin, so fragile?

"Elena."

"Yes?"

Damon thinks how foolish this is, to allow oneself to be so open, so vulnerable, surely its only admirable quality is how pathetic it makes one out to be (_him_ to be), a fault to one's character and survival. But Elena does not feel like a risk. Elena feels like quiet and comfort unfurling warmly in his stomach. Her right arm is curled against his side, trapped between their bodies, while her left hand lays upon his chest, steady, grounding.

"It … does hurt, sometimes. Afterwards, it still does hurt."

Elena's hand finds his own, brings it back to rest with hers above his heart. _Up-down, up-down_, they rise and fall. Her breath is warm and faintly damp against his skin.

"I know."

"But it gets better, with you here." A hesitation. "Will you stay a while?"

The flames in the hearth crackle and lick greedily at the kindling wood, the sounds filtering through the silence of the dimly lit room. Damon can feel the heat against his face, the quiet stir of air by his ears. His eyes feel entranced by the fire.

Fine boned fingers tighten gently around his own.

"I'll stay."


End file.
